“I, my dear lady! Now, how was that possible? Do you think our enamored Cecil would confide his appointments to me? And not having the inestimable privilege of knowing the lady——”
“She is the actress—the girl we saw last night!” she muttered, between her teeth; “an actress—a painted——”
“Was she painted? Yes, I daresay! I am, alas! rather near-sighted,” he said, smiling as he recalled the youthful bloom of Doris’ sweet face. “Ah! yes, I daresay! But perhaps our dear Cecil is near-sighted, too! At any rate, he seems very—ah—very far gone, does he not?”
“He is mad!” she almost hissed.
“You think, then, that he—ah—means this quite seriously? You know so much more of the world than I, dear lady!—you think he would marry this interesting young creature?”
A light of hateful hope—such a light as shamed her womanhood—flashed for a moment in Lady Grace’s eyes; then as it died out she said, moodily, scornfully:
“Oh, yes, he is mad enough for that! Oh, yes, he would—even—marry her!”
“In-deed! Really! How charming! So romantic!” pursued Spenser Churchill. “The future Marchioness of Stoyle an actress, a provincial actress! Clever, oh, certainly, and beautiful—ahem!—well, with her paint and powder, of course; but provincial, quite! And the future marchioness! Let me see, when was the marquisate created?”
His smooth, suave speech almost frenzied her.
“Why do you exasperate me?” she exclaimed, between her teeth, and turning upon him. “Why have you brought me here? To laugh at me, to mock me with this—this scandalous scene? You know he will marry her, unless——”